


The Weakest Link

by 27Vespertine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Hatstall, Marauders, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:52:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27Vespertine/pseuds/27Vespertine
Summary: Peter Pettigrew had never been one for greatness. But he understood one thing: bravery came in many forms. And it was vastly overrated.





	The Weakest Link

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the occurance of the "Hatstall" during Peters sorting (cf. Pottermore) + some thoughts I've been having for some time now about the Marauders and Peter's betrayal (i.e. _what_ in the name of Merlin's saggy left has happened to him to lead him to Death Eaters?).

Peter Pettigrew had never been one for greatness.

He knew that from a young age.

It wasn't really a surprise, either—so there was absolutely no shame in admitting that, he figured. After all, no one had ever believed otherwise, so why should he?

It had started with his dad—or rather, anything _good_ that might have happened to Peter had _ended_ with his dad, leaving his mom. She seemed okay with it, though, showing no backbone whatsoever and nodding along with his pathetic, lousy excuses.

Little Peter had been sitting on the stairs, watching silently. He didn't comprehend _everything_ that was communicated to the two adults—but he understood enough. He knew the basics, so to speak.

Peter understood the absence of love or even respect, which the tall man had never seemed to show for his mother.

He understood the briskness in his dad's voice, ordering him to move aside—as poor Peter did.

He understood the front door, now wide open, snow swirling in and his father's retreating figure down the road. It was an open door, but that was just a sign of his dad's personality—never tending to what must be done—, and not an invitation to follow along.

He did _not_ understand his mum's silent tears, though, as he hesitantly entered their tiny kitchen and watched her cry alone, while he remained half-hidden behind the door post.

"Oh, Petey," she sighed. "Close the front door for me, will you? It gets so cold in here, otherwise." And with a last wipe of her hands, the crying was done, and she picked up the knife and continued cutting vegetables, as she had been doing before his dad had come in.

His mum had to sell the house, of course, but after that they'd lead a small, insignificant life, the two of them, cramped up in their tiny one-bedroom apartment.

It hadn't lasted for long, though.

After a few years, the diagnosis ruined any chances for him, really.

Her voice had been soft, as she beckoned him close.

"Petey— _my dear Petey_ ," she sighed. He strained to hear her voice. " _Be brave_. I want you to be brave." She reached out to caress his blond hair, but an ominous, irregular _beep beep beep_ had doctors and nurses come rushing in—" _Someone get that child out of here!_ ", swooping away a panicking, nine-year-old Peter.

In the orphanage, no one really cared, either. He was just Peter—nothing special. Not the clown or the troublemaker, nor the kind one who made lots of friends, and certainly not the rich one who owned the playground— _he was no one_. And that was okay.

Being no one had its perks.

For one, no expectations were placed upon Peter, and he was just fine with that.

That he wouldn't amount to much, he'd known already. His dad's lack of responsibility and his mother's lack of a spine towards the former had taught Peter enough about his genetics early on. So, he decided that the best way to survive was to remain unnoticed, and to stick to the herd.

(And if, sometimes, his mother's voice resonated in his head— _be brave_ —he wasn't angry, because really, he had no idea what she'd been meaning to say. To Peter, bravery was gradually translating to _survival_ , and perhaps that was exactly what his mother had meant to say.)

There wasn't a lot that could rile him up, either. To be fair, the bar had already been set _so devastatingly low_ for other human beings that Peter generally didn't care much for others.

What he did do, was tag along. He made sure to not suffer the fate of that one poor sod, who turned out to be the laughing stock of the orphanage. Rather, Peter befriended the latter's nemesis, because things just turned out that way—and it suited him just fine.

And he held on to his weak mother's soft voice.

 _Be brave_.

So that, Peter did—and he tagged along.

And so, when an eleven-year-old Peter Pettigrew entered the magnificent red Hogwarts Express and he met a young wizard with messy, black hair and an abundance of confidence—the boy was in the middle of telling a story that made the others around him laugh out loud—Peter just tagged along.

His name, Peter learned on the way to Hogwarts, was James Potter.

_"Where are you heading, if you've got the choice?"_

_"'Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!' Like my dad... Got a problem with that?"_

And when the sorting hat was placed on a rather short and chubby Peter, his mom's voice echoed in his head, along with James Potter's confidence—and the deep, wise voice of the Sorting Hat.

" _How odd_ ," the Hat resonated, after what had seemed an eternity of waiting. " _I've seldom seen such distracting personality—such exceptional_ absence _of distinguishing traits. Where to put a wizard like you…_ "

Again, Peter didn't fit in. And maybe the Hat's hesitation made him panic just slightly— _why did it take so long_ —because none of the others had taken that long and people were beginning to stare, so just _please, let him blend in with the others_ , he prayed.

Maybe the Hat was right. Maybe he didn't belong _anywhere_.

And maybe his mother's last wish didn't mean anything at all—after all, she'd abandoned him so young, just like his dad. The longer it took, the more doubts filled Peter's head.

But—there it was. At last. That soft, humming voice.

" _I'd say… Slytherin—but…_ " The Hat paused. " _You seem to be thinking otherwise, young wizard. Where shall I put you, then?_ "

And the nervous wizard looked at James Potter, one of the last students to be sorted still—standing in front of him without a care or worry in the world. Potter grinned, encouragingly.

 _Where dwell the brave at heart_ , Peter remembered.

" _Are you sure?_ "

Silently, he nodded.

And so, the inevitable happened, the Hat shaping the future of the wizarding world in more ways than anyone could have imagined—preparing for grief in worse ways than the old and wise Sorting Hat could have ever foreseen.

The Hat sighed, opened its frumpy mouth, and shouted: " _GRYFFINDOR!_ "

A small crowd cheered hesitantly.

Peter jumped off the stool and rushed to the Gryffindor table, but not before accepting a flashing grin from his newfound friend, James Potter, who would join him at the table not even five seconds later—the Hat didn't mistrust _him_ —and who would fall victim to the utmost of betrayals a wizard could ever make.

Because, when the time came, and another strong and confident wizard crossed Peter's meaningless path, what choice did he really have?

There was no choice—not when a powerful herd of _winners_ welcomed you home.

Not when the Dark Lord's voice, sending shivers down Peter's spine, was lulling him with tales of orphanages, of _weak adults_ , of worthiness, of anger—of _setting things right_.

There was nothing that a nineteen-year-old Peter could have done, no matter what anyone said.

And so, even though he had the decency to feel slightly hesitant and mostly scared in his decision, it was finally there; that moment, when the Dark Lord had tasked him with the utmost essential matter of _James and Lily Potter_.

And Peter, who had lost all beliefs, decided that bravery was vastly overrated—and he loyally obliged.

In the end, it didn't matter that James Potter was the bravest wizard Peter had ever met, or that Lily Evans was the kindest witch he'd ever cross paths with—or even that Remus, with his furry little problem, seemed to be far worse off than Peter.

None of it mattered. When there's a wand pointed at your throat, or when a witch Imperio'd to the most horrible fate right in front of you, or when a pair of dark, angry, red eyes set on _you_ —

_Where dwell the brave at heart._

—none of it mattered.

There was no such thing as bravery. Maybe _that_ was his purpose then. After all, there was always one who had to be the weakest link. And finally, that's what Peter understood.

**Author's Note:**

> Second attempt at writing in English, so apologies for any textual weirdness.
> 
> Am quite curious as to what you think about Peter's character. We don't get much about that in the books, so I've been mulling it over in my head ever since. (Edit: I looked it up some more and I completely forgot that Peter's mother didn't actually die this young. She lived past his faked death scene. Oops.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading this. Leave me a note?  
> With love,  
> Vespertine xx


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